


Title Transfer

by domesticadventures



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Character Study, Fluff, Gen, POV Continental
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-02
Updated: 2015-11-02
Packaged: 2018-04-29 12:47:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 693
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5128190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/domesticadventures/pseuds/domesticadventures
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's distantly aware that she's being stolen.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Title Transfer

**Author's Note:**

> Companion to [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4330236).

She's distantly aware that she's being stolen.

She can hardly be blamed for being drowsy. She had started off like she imagines all of them do, rolling off the line with shiny new optimism. And she had been happy, for a while, with her owner. He had cared for her. He had loved her.

But then he had gotten older. He had stopped defending her when his friends called her a piece of crap. He had gotten frustrated at her at the smallest sign of problems he refused to fix, kicking her tires, grumbling about his piece of shit car. He was older and more tired and more weighed down by the world, but she was patient with him. She was getting older, too, and she felt that she wasn't asking for much -- only for him to extend her the same courtesy.

But he hadn't, so she had acted in self defense. She's been asleep for a long, long while.

This new person in her front seat holds her keys, but he is not her owner. She knows it by the weight of him, the feel of his hands on her steering wheel, the way he readjusts her mirrors.

It takes him a while to figure her out. He fiddles with her controls, presses gently against her pedals.

But he's a fast learner. A little while later, when they're cruising down the highway, her engine purring more happily than it has in years, she quietly amends her previous assessment.

She isn't being stolen. She's being rescued.

\--

She doesn't know his name, so she decides to assign him one until she learns it. She starts to think of him as her angel.

She does her best for him, but she only makes it a few weeks before decades of neglect catch up with her.

She breaks down quietly, the rumble of her engine slowing to silence as her angel pulls to the side of the road, guiding her to safety.

She worries, at first, he's going to abandon her there. He doesn't seem to know what to do. But then there's a phone call, and then a short wait while he paces, and then there's a tow truck, lifting her up and carrying her to the closest mechanic.

They fiddle around in her insides, cataloguing her flaws. As they read them out loud, she feels herself slipping away again, into that slow sleep of self defense.

“It's going to be expensive,” the mechanic says.

“Whatever it takes,” her angel says.

This time, she wakes all the way up.

\--

He talks to her sometimes, voice low and rumbling and affectionate.

She suspects he mostly does it because he's lonely. She doesn't mind. To this, at least, she can relate.

“I have a...friend,” he's saying, as they drive through the night. He doesn't sleep much, her angel, though with the way he slumps in his seat, the way he sighs heavily when he speaks, she suspects he needs to. She wants him to take care of himself, but barring that, she'll do her best to take care of him. “His name is Dean. He has a car, too, a 1967 Chevy Impala. Dean loves her very much,” he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice. “He calls her Baby. I didn't understand it, before.”

He's quiet for a long time after that. When he speaks again, voice soft, he says, “Perhaps you would like a name as well.”

Oh, yes. She would like that very much, for her angel to say her name with the same affection he had said “Dean.”

\--

She's acutely aware that she's being stolen.

This new person holds her keys, but he is not her angel. He throws himself into her seat roughly, shoving the key into the ignition, slamming his feet on her pedals.

“What a hunk of junk,” he says. He reminds her of her original owner.

She's in better shape than she had been in years, but thirty minutes outside of town, her engine sputters.

Her angel will come for her, she knows. Until then, she's going to make this interloper’s life a living hell.


End file.
